


Re:

by evocates



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: M/M, Modern Era, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kojuurou and Masamune find each other again. Four hundred years late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Re: Searching

**Author's Note:**

> For shahni@LJ.

Hikaru doesn't know how many days it has been since he had started taking this train every day- this exactly train, exactly at 4:17pm in the afternoon, every single day without fail. No- Hikaru does know - it has been exactly thirty one days. An entire month has passed and he is repeating this day over and over again as if he is caught into a loop that he cannot get out of.. Even when he tried to break away from the routine, to try to return to a semblance of normalcy in his life, Hikaru finds his feet finding its way back to the train station.

Back to that one train. Back to that one day, one month ago, when he had felt that heavy tug against his very being, like there is a chain tied around his chest and it's being heavily yanked, dragging him towards someone, somewhere.

When he has seen that boy.

He knows who it is- _Masamune-sama_ and he knows that it's him he sees, sitting on a corner seat, his legs crossed, and Hikaru has missed that train that one day, thirty days and a month ago. At the time, he had been early, because he usually takes the next train to go home, and yet- he had seen him, silhouetted against the window of the train, and Hikaru had ran as fast as he could, ignoring the looks from the other people in the station.

And he had watched the door close in his own face, shutting away the boy behind glass and metal, and Hikaru’s hand had pressed against it for what seemed like eternity. At then, it seems as if that even if his fingers are broken by the door, Hikaru won't care, because the door will be open and he would be able to rush forward to the man- no, the boy that his mind has already supplied the name of.

Date Masamune.

 _Date Masamune._

***

( _he's no longer a lord and no longer Date Masamune_ )

The cart rocks below him as Tohru makes the insanely long commute all the way to the other end of the city at this exhausting hour. It's a blistering hot afternoon, the sun an angry red in the middle of the skyline that seems to have been bled over entirely. It’s almost a month since he had bothered to take the train this far. His parents had chosen to send him to cram school miles away from the actual city area, and he rarely even bothers to go because it’s not that he cares much about school either.

But he remembers. He remembers every single bit of that life, of the scent of the battlefield, the sensation of lightning slipping over his limbs, crackling fiercely around his flesh. The weight of six swords on his hands and the presence of Kojuurou by his side, always like a shadow to him. He knows that they're not just hallucinations or some product of his imagination. He is that person – the same personality, same ambitions, same emotions.

The memories had started trickling in a few years ago, and if Tohru was the type to regret, he would have regretted that. Even his attitude and mannerisms remain the same, he's still chained down to such normalcy, as if he's someone who will slowly and quietly fade into the background. There are no lands to conquer, no battles to fight. He might be a dragon but he is one muzzled and collared by society, with a weight at his neck to force him to bend. He refuses to, but for what ends?

There’s nothing to do here.

There’s nothing for him in this time.

Not even his Right Eye.

***

Hikaru had stood there for a moment, completely gobsmacked and surprised even as the train pulled away from the station. That chain was tugging at him stronger and stronger until he wants to jump down the tracks and physically chase that train, even though it is entirely mad. Even if he might die from it.

 _Masamune-sama, Masamune-sama—_ and the memories had came rushing back in a tidal wave of memories, and voices, and endless repetitions of his own voice calling his name, repeating over and over. Hikaru had just stood there, staring into space until the next train had come-- and then, he had simply walked over to the seats, dropped down, and tried to make sense of a world that suddenly had been rendered entirely too confusing for him to deal with. Far too much for him to be able to swallow, and Hikaru barely had to presence of mind to cancel his appointment that day—

He couldn't get his own voice out of his mind. That same register, that same name, with an air of reverence as if Masamune was his god—or someone even more important. Someone whom he could not live without; someone whose life he had built upon in order to make his own.

It haunted him in his sleep, that name, that eyepatch with a daredevil grin. He always wakes up with tear tracks on his face and an ache on his left cheek like an old, phantom wound that shouldn’t exist, but did, somehow. His entire body ached as if he had lost something so incredibly important to him. Like a limb—no, it was not merely a limb. It’s it's something even more than it, It's as if he is the limb that is torn away, and he feels entirely lost without the body.

And he had went to the history books, flipping through them, trying to find that one name (every single stroke of the kanji has been carved into his brain, so stark and clear that Hikaru wondered if it had been carved onto his own skin instead). And he had found it, in one of the more obscure books.

Date Masamune, a warlord who had conquered most of the North of Japan; who had been one of those instrumental in defeating the Demon King Oda Nobunaga.

Date Masamune, who died at the age of twenty-two at the hands of Sanada Yukimura.

Date Masamune, who had a retainer named Katakura Kojuurou, whom he had called his Right Eye.

 _(as if he is the limb that is torn away)_

***

Tohru tugs on the eyepatch covering his missing eye, tilting his head upwards to stare at the ceiling of the train. He has never have much affinity with this right eye of his, because in his last life he had lost it when he was five; now in this life he’s born with it damaged, and has to be taken out right after.

But this time, he doesn’t even have Kojuurou by his side, and he feels the emptiness of his right side more than ever, the spot aching like it used, nearly five hundred years ago.

He’s truly alone this time; a One-Eyed Dragon with his wings clipped and without his Right Eye.

It’s strange, to be able to miss a person whom he has never met, whom might not even exist, but whom he remembers every single detail of. The calluses on Kojuurou’s hand, the line of his back as he stands in front of Masamune, the reverence and respect in his voice when he says that name that Tohru is starting to use to describe himself.

 _Masamune-sama._

***

He needs to know if the visions he sees are true— he needs to. Nothing else matters to Hikaru; his life might be falling apart and the woman he had been dating might have decided to leave him because he kept going back to the train station, again and again.

At exactly 4:17pm in the afternoon, right in the middle of a work day.

He’s here again, standing right in front of the tracks. Waiting like he had for the past month, even those he thinks that there’s no chance that the boy will appear after an entire month had passed. Yet he can’t help but hope, because if it’s true, there's truly nothing left for him in this life any longer. It’s pathetic of him, to stake his entire life on one meeting. To tear down his life and rebuild it around a shadow that he’s chasing.

 _(he’s the Right Eye)_

The roar of the train pulling into the station resounds in his ears, and Hikaru raises his eyes just as it stops. The door stays closed, but he can see through the glass and- there.

There.

 _Theretheretherethere-_

His breathing catches in his throat and his heart is thumping so fast and Hikaru can't believe his eyes and he doesn't know if he's dreaming again or if this is another one of those visions those fantasies- and it takes an eternity for him to wait for the door to open, and when it did all he can do is to stand there for a long moment, simply staring at the boy seating obliviously in the carriage. The same carriage, the same seat, the same scene as it was a month ago but this time- this time, Hikaru is on time. He will catch him and he will ask him and he will call him by that name and his feet stumbles as he steps into the carriage, woken from his reverie by the beeping warnings as the door closes behind him.

He stands in front of the boy, and for a moment he's entirely silent not because he has nothing to say but because all the words are weighing down his tongue and he doesn’t know how to begin.

( _hi, hello, can I have your name_

 _hi, hello, I’ve been dreaming of you for the past month—_

 _hi, hello, I have been waiting all of my life for you—?_ )

But then his knees are giving out on him, sending him crashing to the ground and his voice works without his mind needing to order it—

 _“Masamune-sama."_

 _Please_ , he thinks, with the desperation of a man who has staked his everything in just this, _please tell me who I am._

 _Please._

***

 _“Kojuurou.”_


	2. Re: Calls

Sometimes, Tohru dreams.

He usually doesn’t remember his dreams, because Tohru always tries to make his waking hours as vivid and bright as possible, using every single drop of his energy until he drops into bed and sleeps like the dead. There’s no use in holding back – he hasn’t held back since he was _Masamune_ , or perhaps even before, when he was _Bontenmaru_. He has never seen the merit in dreams or nightmares either, because they are so ephemeral, so much like mist through fingers, and he can never catch them.

And if he can’t ever do anything about his dreams, why will he want to have them at all?

But sometimes, he does, and he remembers each instance with stark clarity, as if he hasn’t dreamt it. As if he had lived it once, and is now remembering it, the memories slowly filtering back in his mind. His dreams have never been about _Tohru_ , after all.

Of all these dreams, there is one that he remembers the best. It’s heavy and stark, each second passing by his eyes like a high-definition photograph. Tohru dreams of a glorious battle, of flashes of red and fire and joyful laughter. He remembers the clash of swords against spears and the weight of his six swords in his hands and the roughness of their hilts against the calluses of his fingers, and he can’t help but feel the same thrill, the same happiness. Because he was and is and will always be a dragon and dragons belong to the battlefield, with their wings outspread and soaring high, claws outstretched and ready to kill.

And he remembers pain, and the heat of a spear burning through his flesh. He remembers dying, but clearest of all, starkest of all—Tohru remembers Kojuurou’s face, the despair in his eyes as he holds him in his arms. He remembers Kojuurou’s voice, shouting his own name.

“ _Masamune-sama._ ”

**

There is a _click_ inside Tohru’s head, as if a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle has been pressed back in place, and he can finally see again.

“ _Kojuurou._ ”

The name wrenches itself out of Tohru’s throat, and he sees this man in front of him, wearing a rumpled suit and glasses and enough desperation in those eyes that he feels like he’s drowning it in. He hears that voice, that name, and it almost physically knocks him backwards, feeling as if that voice has pierced through all of his shields. It pierced through him and wrapped its cold fingers around Tohru’s heart, pulling that name out from his chest, forcing it to tumble out from his throat, half-formed.

And he says it again—

“ _Kojuurou._ ”

Like the fate of the world rests upon that name.

And Tohru is falling down from his seat, stumbling forward and that name—no, those names resound in his mind, over and over. He’s here. Kojuurou’s here.

His Right Eye. That missing part of himself, returning to his side.

Finally, he is whole again.

***

It’s funny, Hikaru muses quietly, almost hysterically, joy mixing with disbelief and a relief so great that it almost crushes him. It’s funny how much difference a single word can make.

 _Kojuurou._ That’s his name; that’s what Masamune calls him—and Hikaru feels Masamune’s arms around him, hugging him so very tightly and close, almost hard enough to crush his ribs but at that moment he doesn’t care. He holds him just as tightly, fingers clenching around the back of Masamune’s shirt as he tries to hold back his tears, as he feels his eyes burning.

It’s real. All of it is real.

Hikaru wonders if this is a dream as well, if he’s going to wake up with his cheek aching as if a blade has slashed the skin open again, but Masamune’s heat against his own body is far too real. That tiny click he felt to the very depths of his bones was too real, that sudden sense that here, finally—he has found where he truly belongs.

Where he should be all along.

“I’ve found you,” he says, giddy with the peculiar, odd feeling of drowning, as if he’s so happy that he cannot breathe. He pulls away slightly, fingers ( _too smooth, his own fingers_ ) smoothing over the stark white of the medical eyepatch that covers Masamune’s right eye.

( _it’s the wrong colour, the wrong shape—_

 _a dragon should not look like he’s injured_ )

He ignores all the stares around them, ignores the world because none of them matter anymore. A beat, and Hikaru presses his lips against the spot of the skin right above the eyepatch; soft, gentle, as if he’s kissing a young child’s wound, trying to soothe. He closes his eyes, breathes out slowly—

And _Kojuurou_ crashes down onto him like a tidal wave.

“ _I’ve found you,_ ” the words are heavy, choked at the base of his throat and he forces them out with difficulty. It’s as if he can’t breathe, the weight of one and a thousand lifetimes weighing against his chest, forcing down his shoulders until he’s desperately hunched over, his bones and muscles protesting.

Still, he tries. Nothing else matters right now but this man. Not the countless accusing eyes in this carriage, in this train, in this world.

“I’ve found you, my Lord,” there’s a barely-there attempt at calm, and Hikaru’s smile shakes, lips tremble, like he’s a leaf blown in the wind.

“Let I, Kojuurou, serve you for all of your life once more. Please give me another chance to protect you.

“Please—”

“A dragon’s Right Eye doesn’t beg, Kojuurou,” Tohru says, and there’s giddiness in his words, in the joy that he tries to keep hidden. But Masamune has never been particularly good at hiding himself, and so it all bursts out, like bubbles, and he can’t stop smiling.

 _A dragon’s Right Eye._

 _His_ Right Eye.

 _Kojuurou._

Now he no longer needs to walk through life half-blind. Now he has his Right Eye back at his side, and immediately the world seems sharper, brighter, the darkness on one side brushed away. He can see the world again, in all of its beautiful and filthy glory.

But his gaze is fixed upon Kojuurou, on his knees in front of him, calling him _Masamune-sama_ with the same reverent tone as if the name means something. As if there has been a black hole within him and Kojuurou, with just a name and a presence, so warm against his own skin, has filled it.

 _Masamune_ exists only within Tohru’s mind, because there has been no one who had recognised him. He’d feared spending the rest of his life searching for some trace of that past. For someone else that knows him and acknowledges everything he's done. To be Date Masamune again. These are all things he's been wanting. It's truly who he is at his core, an identity he can't detach himself from because his soul is rooted in that place so far in the past.

But Kojuurou is here, and he remembers and calls him by the name that the world has forgotten and relegated to obscure history books. His Right Eye has found him.

Tohru is whole again, with this man by his side.

And this time, he has no intention of leaving first.

“Don't sweat it, Kojuurou. _Not to worry._ I'm here, aren't I? You're my Right Eye.” He reaches out, buries his hand in Kojuurou’s now-shorter hair, tugging at the ends of the strands like a child. A long, slow breath out, and he swallows thickly before he continues, “Haven’t you always guarded my back?”

***

 _The last thing he remembers of Kojuurou—_

 _The tears that had wet Masamune’s own face as the darkness encroached on his vision; the warmth of the arm wrapped around his body, so hot when pressed against his rapidly cooling skin. And Masamune remembers how his own bloodied fingers had trailed down Kojuurou’s cheek, following the line of the scar—and how his greatest regret was leaving his Right Eye behind; was leaving so soon._

 _Because the two of them could conquer the world together. Because he knew he was capable of so much more, and yet he didn’t regret dying, for this was the greatest battle he ever had._

 _Because he knew, even then, at the brink of death, that Kojuurou would follow him very soon. For if a One-Eyed Dragon without a Right Eye was half-blind, a Right Eye without a Dragon is a cut-off, dying limb._

 _Masamune wasn’t a man who regretted anything he did. He threw himself entirely into what he wanted, what he believed in, and fought his hardest and wrangled victories from the mouth of a Demon King. He never looked back because he had a Right Eye to watch his back for him, a Right Eye with his own teeth and fangs and claws, just as vicious and strong as he was._

 _Yet then, as he was dying, he regretted. Just that once._

 _For Kojuurou’s sake._

***

His Right Eye. That's what Kojuurou is, that's all he ever was, and that's all he wants to be. There's nothing of Katakura Kojuurou if there is no Date Masamune, because just as much as Masamune had been raise by Kojuurou's own hand, _Kojuurou_ was shaped by _Masamune_. He has always been simply a part of Masamune – he is his Right Eye. They have the same wishes, the same desires, the same ambitions, because Kojuurou rarely wants anything for his own sake.

His Lord is whom he fights for, kills for, _lives_ for.

He has already been gone for too long already, left the Dragon without his Right Eye by his side. He has been away for a lifetime, no two, no three, no four—

Lifetimes that he cannot remember. Hikaru thinks he has been a merchant, a teacher, a peasant, a soldier. He had seen the most peaceful years of Tokugawa Ieyasu’s reign, he had witnessed and even fought in the Bakumatsu—at least, that’s what he thinks, because those memories are hazy, the edges faded, and whenever he tries to chase them they slip away from his fingers like water, like mist itself. He can’t capture anything, for they are too transparent, too... forgettable.

As if lifetimes without being by Masamune’s side are simply not worth remembering at all.

He remembers _Kojuurou_ with such clarity that it doesn’t seem that four centuries have passed. Perhaps four years instead, or four days, or four seconds, even – everything seems to be so stark that Hikaru feels himself being blinded.

“I haven’t,” he says, his words small gusts of air against Masamune’s skin, barely audible. “I could not protect you in the end. There is nothing I can do to repent for my failure—” his words are cut off as Masamune raises his head, pinning him down with a fierce gaze.

“Then don’t. Can't go back and change what history's already written, so leave it as is. What happened happened. _Leave it_ ,” he says. Though his stare never dims, Masamune smiles, poking Hikaru’s cheek, stroking down a line where Kojuurou’s scar should be.

“You’re late.”

***

There’s a pause, and Tohru feels his own breath catching in his throat before Kojuurou finally smiles, laughing. There’s a hint of bitterness there, the heavy weight of regret, but Tohru promises to himself that he’ll reach in one day to tear it out, to rip that weight into pieces and scatter it to the winds.

They have no time to regret the past. Their time is here, now, and now, with Kojuurou here... Tohru feels as if he can do anything. For the first time since he had died in that time, Tohru feels as if the world is at his feet, and he only needs to reach down and pick it up, and it will be his.

( _How could I have lived without you? Without you I was only half-formed, half-seeing, the world closed to me._ )

“I'm late,” a breathy little declaration, and Kojuurou's smile is shaky but sure, and his eyes shine not just with tears. Tohru can’t help but return the smile, cupping his hand on Kojuurou’s jaw, brushing his fingers against a scar he can see in his mind’s eye again.

“Please forgive me. I got a little lost. But I'm here now, Masamune-sama, and I will never leave your side. Not even if death tries to part us again.” And Tohru feels that hand, smoother now though still slightly callused, most likely from holding a pen, brushing over his eyepatch. He smiles, for he hears everything Kojuurou cannot and will not voice.

( _Even in this world, you still suffer. How much sadness have you experienced? How many tragedies you had to go through, that I wasn't able to protect you from?_ )

Tohru throws his head back and laughs, a sharp, loud thing, because Kojuurou hasn’t changed in four hundred years. He still takes the blame of everything upon his own shoulders even when Tohru has swept everything away and crushed them into tiny pieces on the ground.

He reaches out with a grin, punching Kojuurou lightly on the shoulder. Then he opens the balled-up fist, holding out his hand.

“The name’s Matsuda Tohru. _Nice to meet you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bontenmaru is Masamune's childhood name.


	3. Re: Connecting

Memories are like tangled knots, crossing over each other and tangling into a ball of string. They can’t be untied, for there’s no end, no beginning – one leads to another, the second to third, the third to fourth. Slowly, hands can only try to sieve through the threads, pushing some away to uncover the ones at the very bottom, to find at least something to grasp onto and tug on it. Tug-pull-tug until the rest shows themselves, poking shy heads above the mass with tiny waving fingers to lead outwards, as if out of the Labyrinth itself.

And yet the exit can never be found. He can only stumble forward, following that string until he feels like he’s drowning and has to stop to breathe.

This is the string he has uncovered:

Hikaru remembers deaths.

He remembers his own death, suddenly, with the clarity as if it happened mere seconds before. He had died, by his own blade as it pierced through his own skin, cutting through it and feeling himself almost entirely drowned by the red-hot pain that overwhelms him entirely. Yet he still feels the cold of the sword against his neck, and the sudden sense of complete blankness. That feeling of death, of disappearance, of the emptiness of feeling. As if nothing exists any longer.

Death is as familiar to him as the weight of a sword in his hand; as the scrape of the rough hilt against the calluses of his skin. He had not experienced either but he knows them nonetheless, the knowledge sinking into his mind like each inhale of cool air seeping into his lungs, and Hikaru mourns the deaths that he has both witnessed and has not seen. Things he remembers the feel and smell and sound and sight of, yet has never experienced.

 _(the fire the smiles the battle and that one frozen second when he had jumped in but it’s far too late, and there was blood everywhere, far worse than in a battlefield because this was his Lord’s blood, Masamune’s blood and—)_

***

 _Matsuda Tohru._

Hikaru can’t help but blink, lips parting as though to say that it's not true, to tell his Lord to stop joking, because his name is _Date Masamune_ \-- isn't it? But though Hikaru knows Masamune to be _Masamune_ , he knows that ‘Tohru’ is the name that the world will know him by. Just like ‘Hikaru’ is the name that the world knows him by.

And yet-- what a common name for a man who is far from common. Hikaru feels laughter bubbling at the back of his throat because of just how wrong that name is for a man like Masamune, a man who is far from quiet and who is made to conquer the world. For his Lord, this is too plain a name.

The irony does not escape him. That they seem to have not changed, and yet the names that they have here are so terribly different. Masamune had always declared himself to be Date Masamune, as the One-Eyed Dragon, names that he had been given and which he accepted as his due just as Kojuurou had always seen himself to be his Right Eye, as Kojuurou. Those were their names, words and letters that they had claimed and made into their own.

Here, they are given ill-fitting labels that they can’t change; that the world had given them a long time ago, despite their wishes.

“Suzuki Hikaru,” he says, reaching out and squeezing his Lord’s hand, hard. The skin of Masamune’s hand is soft, without the usual hard calluses he had a lifetime ago; calluses bred from constantly holding, training and fighting with his swords.

“Please take care of me.”

It’s strange, to think that he doesn’t fit this body, this name. That he is an entirely different person than he had been a month and a moment ago. Even more strangely...

He wants to be Kojuurou far more than he wants to be Hikaru.

***

“Where are you headed? I'll go with you,” Tohru stands up, sitting back onto the chair and pulling Kojuurou back up. Kojuurou stands at the same moment as Tohru tugs, the momentum pushing him gently onto the seat.

They still move together in perfect tandem. Tohru can’t help but grin at that, bumping shoulders with Kojuurou.

“I’m going home,” Kojuurou says, letting his hands fall to his lap even as he bumps him back. “I'm afraid that my life so far has been dreadfully boring without you, Masamune-sama.”

Tohru snorts, shrugging as he crosses his arms, leaning back against the chair. “Then I’ll just have to make it interesting for you again. _Easy enough_.”

And Tohru can still see, easy as anything, the darkness in Kojuurou’s eyes, as if he’s being haunted. Kojuurou has always been stupid this way, dwelling too much on the past when all Tohru—all Masamune—wants to do is to live fully in the present and charge forward to the future. He can change those, and he can’t change the past.

“I’ll be deeply thankful,” Kojuurou says, and there’s a dry note in his voice that makes Tohru grin at the familiarity of it. He reaches out and punches Kojuurou in the shoulder. Kojuurou catches his hand and shakes his head, continuing, “My apartment is only a few stops away, but... weren't you already headed elsewhere?”

Shrugging, Tohru pulls his hand out of Kojuurou’s grasp, waving it entirely casually. “On my way to cram school, but it doesn't matter. Nothing I can't skip again. _No problem_. I'd rather follow you home.”

Out of the corner of Tohru’s eyes, he sees the a few of the girls on the opposite aisle widen their eyes, then turn around and giggle amongst themselves. He rolls his eyes. _Women_. They used to be much simpler four hundred years ago – they didn’t come near him because he was ‘scary’, and he left all the arrangements for marriage to Kojuurou and the clan elders to deal with. He was too busy trying to conquer Japan to think about settling down to have a wife and children.

Date Masamune didn’t marry, in the end. Dying far too soon will do that to a person, he supposes, but he has no regrets.

“If that is the attitude you have with your studies, _Tohru-san_ , then perhaps I should tutor you to make sure that you do well,” Kojuurou’s voice cuts through Tohru’s thoughts, and he shakes his head, bumping against the older man again.

“You mean that? I’m a troublesome student, Kojuurou,” Tohru’s grin widens even further, and strangely enough the girls’ giggles rise in volume as well. He ignores them.

“I know,” Kojuurou says, a small, wistful smile at the edge of his lips. “I may be four hundred years older, my Lord, but I’m sure that I can keep up with you still.”

“ _You’ve got a deal_. Learning from you beats the hell out of going to cram school.” Kojuurou is far more interesting, for one thing. For another...Masamune had learnt everything worth learning from him, and Kojuurou has always been the one person who knows precisely how to make him learn and the make sure the lessons aren’t boring.

“Please take care of me, _Suzuki-sensei_.”

Kojuurou ducks his head down, laughing more than a little sheepishly, “I will do my best to be worthy of that honourific. But I am not yet a teacher, Masamune-sama-- so for now, 'Kojuurou' will have to do.”

“ _Too stiff_. You taught me all I know, unless your skills have dulled in four hundred years?”

Kojuurou raises an eyebrow, obviously not taking up the bait.

“You’ll just have to see it for yourself, Masamune-sama.”

***

Historians have said that the tomb of Date Masamune is one of the best-made in Japan. It is not a large one – Masamune had not managed to conquer many provinces and expand his territory as much as he could have in his short twenty-two years of living – but it is certainly sizeable, larger than the majority of minor warlords’.

For he wasn’t anywhere near ‘minor’. Not to Kojuurou; not to his people.

Masamune deserved nothing but the best, and though everyone knew that such a move might drain the Date coffers, no one spoke a single word against giving the best tomb that they could afford. Masamune was a great leader, loved and respected by the men. They had always fought so hard for him and been entirely willing to die for him because his very presence had always been an inspiration for them.

His people loved him. There had been no shortage for funds, because even the peasants had tried to contribute all they could. Kojuurou hadn’t even needed to ask – they simply gave all they could.

But Yoshihime did not contribute a single cent, and Kojuurou did not ask her to. Masamune’s life would be celebrated and the loss of it mourned by the people who loved him and who still loves him even after he died. If his mother chose to still hold her grudge against him even after his death, she would not even be allowed into the tomb, much less given a chance to hold a stake in it.

Shigezane, chosen to be the next Date Lord by Kojuurou himself as the highest ranked who had the Date blood in his veins, will make sure of that. The boy had tried to resist the position at first, citing Kojuurou to be the best choice for he knows Masamune the best, and he knows the Date the best.

But a Right Eye cannot survive without a One-Eyed Dragon. Kojuurou was not alive any longer; he had died with Masamune in that one instance when he didn’t manage to jump in to save him. Now he lived only as a remnant, to take care of Masamune’s affairs and to make sure that his Lord had a proper place to rest after his last great battle.

(Kojuurou does not know this, but Hikaru does:

After Kojuurou’s own death, Shigezane had buried him˴ in the tomb together with Masamune, saying that a Dragon and his Right Eye should never be parted, even in death.

The Date troops were in the end conquered by the Sanada, and joined their new masters to side with Ishida Mitsunari in the fight against the Tokugawa in Sekigahara. When Tokugawa rose triumphant in the battle, Date Shigezane’s lands were stripped to merely ten thousand koku, mere pittance compared to what Masamune could have, would have, and should have achieved.

Hikaru also knows this:

It was- _is_ his fault. Kojuurou should have died that day.

Not Masamune.)

***

Tohru can’t help but laugh again at that, feeling the sound gather at the base of his throat, bubbling outwards. There’s something terribly natural about laughing this way with Kojuurou as they sit with each other, shoulder against shoulder, swaying slightly as their skin brushing with every gentle jerk of the train as it moves. With anyone else, Tohru will have already been glaring, warning them away because he hates being touched; has hated it even since he remembers being Masamune. Has hated it all simply because it reminds him that he’s in this world, in this too-crowded world where a dragon can’t even spread his wings properly.

Masamune was used to wide open fields; used to seeing the skies when he looked upwards – the sky that he always promises himself that he will conquer. But Tohru grew up in the world where the skies have long been conquered by too-tall buildings, when all the open fields in the world haves been taken over by blocks and blocks of concrete. He has grown up knowing that there’s no place that he can make his own, no territory that he can conquer.

From birth he has been confined within boxes, wings taped down and clipped, claws covered and fangs muzzled. There is no longer a place for a conqueror, and Masamune has been one for as long as he can remember – first conquering the disease that took his eye, then his family, then the whole of Oushuu before moving fast downwards until half of the north of Japan is for him to take – yet in this world he has to bow his head down and pretend that he is not a dragon.

Tohru has been giving up on Masamune for a long time. He knows that is who he wishes badly to be. He knows that is who he’s meant to be. Yet he’s four hundred years too late and died far too early. There is no one who knows about _Masamune_ ; who will not call Tohru insane for remembering that one life with such clarity.

But Kojuurou is here, and he remembers. There are so many discrepancies between Suzuki Hikaru and Masamune’s Right Eye, but Tohru knows that though Kojuurou’s face is now unadorned by a scar and his own eyepatch is no longer a _tsuba_ , they are still the same people.

They have to be. If not, Kojuurou wouldn’t have called that name so breathily, so desperately, as if his soul and sanity was hung upon those syllables.

And Tohru can’t help but reach out again, poking Kojuurou’s cheek, trying to shake the obvious sorrow in the older man’s eyes. He doesn’t know what Kojuurou is thinking about and he doesn’t want to know, because it’s not important. Kojuurou is probably thinking of the past, and Tohru has forcibly stopped himself from thinking of the same thing years ago.

Because he can never return to that age; neither of them can. He will always have to sign his name as ‘Matsuda Tohru’ instead of ‘Date Masamune’. Yet he thinks that it doesn’t matter, at this point, because he will never forget Masamune, especially not that now he has Kojuurou here, a constant reminder. A voice that always calls him by that name.

“ _Come on_ , Kojuurou. Don’t give me that face,” and his gaze is fierce upon the older man as he grips onto Kojuurou’s chin, pulling him forward so their eyes are inches from each other.

Kojuurou sighs, his hand closing around Masamune’s wrist. There’s still that look, but it’s hidden now, as if shoved to the back of Kojuurou’s head and an almost-sincere smile used to cover it. “I’m sorry, my Lord – my mind had wandered.”

Tohru snorts, crossing his arms and leaning against the glass pane beside his seat. “Told you to not think about the past already. I’m here now. So make full use of it.”

That smile broadens and Kojuurou ducks his head, laughing quietly. There is something terribly genuine in that sound, and Tohru thinks—ah, he hasn’t lost his touch even after so long. He can still read Kojuurou better than anyone else. Not as well as Kojuurou can read him, but that’s already a given.

“I intend to, Masamune-sama,” Kojuurou says, and bumps his shoulder lightly against Tohru’s.

***

 _Kojuurou remembers the weight of Masamune’s body in his arms. The stiffness, the way Masamune’s weight sank completely onto him in a way that would never happen if he was alive, because his Lord was always far too prideful to ever depend on him so completely._

He could hear the cries of the men behind him, the quiet, broken little sounds of grown warriors trying to stifle their sobs. Kojuurou wanted to tell them to grieve all they wanted, to forget pride and propriety and dignity and wail for the best leader they had ever had, that they would ever have.

Yet he couldn’t grieve so loudly and openly either. The weight of it crushed down on him, pressing against his throat and strangling his lungs and he couldn’t even breathe properly now, much less weep. It was a grief so strong that Kojuurou had no way to express it, no way to even know it, for it had him so entirely in his thrall that he had no way of thinking of an escape.

In fact, he couldn’t even think at all. He was so numb that his emotions seemed to have slaughtered themselves, and all he knew was the weight of the corpse in his arms.

His Lord.

Masamune was dead.


	4. Re: New

“ _Nice_ ,” Tohru comments as he steps into the house, head ducking instinctively at the threshold even though he doesn’t need to – Kojuurou’s doorway can let even the taller man past through without bending down. It was quite a big place, especially for a single man, though of course smaller than the 2LDK that Tohru lives in with his family.

”It’s not a very big place,” Kojuurou says quietly, stepping into the house proper behind him after locking the door. “Your home must be much larger.”

“Nah,” Tohru shrugs, ducking his head again as he pokes around the house, heading for the kitchens. “My house is just a bit bigger, but there are four of us. It’s _damn cramped_ sometimes.”

He wants to see if Kojuurou has anything substantial to eat, or if he’s one of those who subsist on instant noodles. It’s a weird thought to have, because Tohru can’t help but still think of Kojuurou as his retainer, as his samurai, and not just as an ordinary man.

But he’s not really an ordinary man, is it? He’s _Kojuurou_ , and that sets him apart from the entire world. Even if that’s only in Tohru’s eyes, it’s still completely true, because Tohru’s perspective is the only one that matters, in the end.

“Four of you?” there’s a hint of bemusement in Kojuurou’s tone. “Do you live with your family, Masamune-sama?”

Stopping at the doorway to the kitchens, Tohru cranes his head back, grinning at Kojuurou. “Yeah. Even have an annoying kid sister this time around.”

It was still strange to think about having a family. Masamune’s family had either hated him or had died by his own hand in one way or another. His only ‘family’ had been Kojuurou, who loved him, who was his father, brother, comrade, retainer, friend and lover all at the same time.

But now he has a little sister to protect and parents who have expectations of him that he has to at least try to live up to. He has a little sister who adores him and clings to him whenever she could, and doting parents who cannot understand how and why he had grown up to be this way, and yet accepting him, nonetheless. A little grudgingly, true, but... Tohru can’t help the bitter little smile on his lips, because at least they don’t try to poison him. Just send him to cram school in the vain hopes that it will motivate him to improve his grades.

Kojuurou’s eyes have widened slightly, and Tohru doesn’t blame him. If it’s weird for him, who had an entire lifetime to get used to the thought, it must be even odder for Kojuurou.

“Do they...” the older man asks, tilting his head to the side.

Tohru shakes his head, moving into the kitchens and opening Kojuurou’s fridge, poking his head into it. Hah, so it looks like Kojuurou cooks too. That’s convenient; Tohru can drop by after school and make Kojuurou cook for him once he’s done with work.

“I’m just plain old Matsuda Tohru to them,” he lifts his head, shooting Kojuurou a sharp grin. “Don’t think they would believe if I told them, and I don’t want to give my old man a heart attack.”

“I don’t think you can be ‘plain old’ _anyone_ , Masamune-sama,” Kojuurou laughs, walking forward and leaning into the fridge beside Tohru. Their hands brush again, the briefest of touches, and Tohru pauses for a moment, just like he had for the many times their hands had touched when they were walking here from the train station.

Then he pushes those thoughts out of his mind, tilting his shoulders and bumping against Kojuurou.

“So, are you going to make your guest anything to eat?”

***

It had all happened so fast.

“Is that all you’ve got, Sanada Yukimura?” Masamune’s helmet was long gone, lying abandoned at the side of the road. Half of it was gone, cut off by a stray strike of Sanada’s spears, and the metal half-melted from the dangerous fire that burnt at the tip.

But he was still grinning, excitement writ all over his face and his six swords drawn and gleaming. He was leaning forward slightly, lips parted and panting hard, his hair plastered to his skin before he shook his head, sending drops of sweat flying everywhere

Kojuurou watched, and though he couldn’t help but worry for his Lord’s safety, he trusted in him and in his abilities. He trusted in his abilities.

“ _Don’t interfere, Kojuurou. Sanada Yukimura is this One-Eyed Dragon’s prey._ ”

“Far from it, Dokuganryuu Date Masamune!” Sanada shouted, thrusting his spears high into the air. Though Yukimura was almost legendary for the volume of his voice and how it never seemed to falter, it was wavering now, the words distorted by the gulping pants he took to refill his lungs with air.

There was a cut on Sanada’s brow, bleeding heavily and dripping onto the ground. Masamune’s shoulder was cut as well, a long slash from the collarbone down to the upper arm.

They were perfectly evenly matched.

“This Yukimura will not rest until he has defeated you,” Yukimura barked out defiantly, and out of the corner of his eye, Kojuurou could see Sarutobi standing at the side, his ninja pinwheel drawn just like Kojuurou’s own sword was. The ninja was grinning indulgently, eyes fixed on his master.

“ _Hah_!” Masamune snorted, drawing his feet back, ready to pounce. “Big words for a man who is going to be crushed by me!”

A beat. Their words hung in the air between them, their eyes fixed upon each other, spitting fire and lightning. Challenging, daring the other to make the first move.

Then Masamune charged in, lightning sparking at the tips of his sword as he roared. Sanada matched his roar with a scream, his spears burning brightly They met in a clash of weapons before backing away from each other and dancing back into the fray. It seemed entirely normal.

Then.

Kojuurou saw it happen first—Masamune stepped backwards, landing wrongly and his foot shifted, and Sanada’s spear was moving in.

“ _Masamune-sama!_ ”

And he was running forward, as fast as his legs could take him, instincts taking over as he tried to dive in between them, tried to take the surely-fatal blow with his own body. He wasn’t thinking, but he knew that he had to cut in, he had to disobey Masamune’s order, for the simple fact that he had to save his Lord’s life. After this, he would gladly commit seppuku if- if it meant that Masamune was going to live.

But he was too late.

He saw it happen too slowly; saw Sanada pierce through Masamune’s defences; saw his Lord’s single eye widen as the metal stabbed into his chest and through it; saw as the fire immediately cauterise the wound and worsen it further; saw as Masamune’s head snapped back from the impact; saw his body being blasted backwards from the sheer force until it smashed against a tree and slowly, painfully slowly, slid downwards to hit the ground.

Kojuurou ran. His mind was screaming incoherently, and the only words he could recognise were ‘ _no_ ’ and ‘ _Masamune-sama_ ’. He was too slow, and Masamune’s mouth was coloured in red as he coughed, hard, once, blood pouring out of his mouth in a gush.

In that one second, Kojuurou _knew_.

Even as he fell to his knees beside his Lord, he already knew he was too late. Not even a dragon could survive a mortal wound like this, especially one so close to his heart. Kojuurou felt his eyes burning as his arm wrapped around Masamune’s shoulders, pulling him up and pulling him close, his lips murmuring _Masamune-sama, Masamune-sama_ over and over again, desperately.

He shoved his own coat off his shoulders, bunching the cloth up and trying to press it against the wound. But it was hopeless- hopelesshopeless _hopeless_ and Kojuurou’s voice choked in his throat because there was _so much blood_. Not even when Kojuurou had taken out Masamune’s right eye had there been so much.

There was a part of him that was aware that Sarutobi was holding Sanada back, shaking his head. But his attentions were entirely captured by Masamune, and he was holding his body close to his own, getting blood everywhere on himself but he didn’t care.

“Masamune-sama,” he choked out, biting on his own lip as he stroked Masamune’s sweat-soaked hair back, shaking him gently, hoping against hope that he will open his eye. That he would say his name again.

There was one frozen moment as Masamune struggled to open his eye, staring up at Kojuurou blearily. His hand twitched at his side as Kojuurou’s tears dropped onto his skin.

“Told you... not to... interfere... Ko... juurou...”

Kojuurou smiled, bitter, tinged with relief and the sudden fleeing of hope. Masamune’s eye was glazed over, and he knew.

He knew.

“Please have my deepest apologies, Masamune-sama,” Kojuurou murmured, knowing that this was the last time his Lord would hear him say his name. That he would hear Masamune’s voice saying his own.

But he didn’t know what he was apologising for. Was it that he had interfered, or was it that he hadn’t succeeded in protecting him?

Was it for letting Masamune die, right in from of him, even though he had vowed to protect him forever?

***

The smell of stir-frying meat and vegetables filled the air, and Tohru drops himself down at one of the two chairs in the kitchen, swinging his legs around and grinning like a child. It’s been ages since he has eaten anything Kojuurou cooks, but he supposes that dying will do that to you.

He can speak about dying easily because that is another life; there’s no use thinking about it now, much less weeping. But he can tell that the shadows of that life is hanging over Kojuurou’s head, darkening his eyes. The idiot is probably brooding over his failure even though Tohru doesn’t blame him in the slightest for what happened.

Masamune had known the risks of battling Sanada Yukimura. He had gone into the battle ready to die at any moment and knowing that he had to give up all of his ambitions if he lost; he had fought with all of his heart and mind, throwing his very soul into the battle because there was nothing that excited him as much as the sight of Yukimura’s spears as they caught fire, nothing as much as hearing Yukimura’s voice, shouting a challenge to him.

If he had been less selfish of a man, he wouldn’t have chased after those battles so much. Masamune had known his duties, had known that his people would weep without him, but he had gone into battle believing he would win. Tohru knows now that it had been arrogant for him to think so, but he doesn’t want change the circumstances of his death in the single bit.

Date Masamune had died a warrior, doing what he loved. It was more than enough for him.

But Kojuurou thinks too much about everything, and that hasn’t changed even after four hundred years. Tohru scowls at himself, jumping to his feet and moving over to the older man, tiptoeing as he looks over his shoulder at the food.

“ _Looks good,_ ” he says, and feels more than hears Kojuurou’s chuckle as it ripples through his shoulders.

“Stop thinking about the past, Kojuurou,” Tohru says bluntly, reaching out and punching him hard on the chest. Kojuurou sighs, shaking his head.

”I cannot. I should have...”

“ _Stop_ ,” Tohru orders, steel in his voice, and Kojuurou’s mouth snaps shut immediately. “Told you already: thinking about that won’t change a thing. So stop it.”

There’s a pause, before Kojuurou shakes his head slowly. “I will try my best, Masamune-sama, but please give me a little time.”

Tohru snorts, crossing his arms. “Looks like that’s the best I can get from you, you bastard.” He grins, reaching over and stealing Kojuurou’s glasses. “Except for needing these things, you haven’t changed at all.”

Kojuurou’s hand darts out, trying to take his glasses back, but Tohru skips backwards. He looks at the cooking food for a moment before his hand moves in, taking a piece of meat.

“Ow!” and he drops it quickly, shaking his burnt fingers. He doesn’t notice Kojuurou moving until the older man has captured his wrist, bringing his smarting fingers to his mouth, sucking lightly on them.

Tohru blinks, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches out, cupping Kojuurou’s cheek with a hand, his thumb tracing the scar that he can still see, in his mind’s eyes. The glasses fall to the floor, forgotten, as Kojuurou’s eyes lift up, meeting Tohru’s gaze.

This is the closest they have been to each other since Kojuurou has found him again, Tohru realises.

And it feels natural for them to lean towards each other, like two puzzle pieces trying to fit together to form a whole.

***

Morning came brightly into the room, sunlight falling into Kojuurou’s eyes and he woke instantly, squinting. Immediately, he raised an arm, blocking the light from falling into Masamune’s face and waking his Lord up as rudely as it had him.

He sat up, still holding his hand in position as he shook the sleep out of his eyes. It was dawn; the sun was just breaking over the clouds in the East. Kojuurou’s rooms were situated in the east of the estate, for he always rose with the sun. Masamune’s were further south, but it seemed that his Lord didn’t bother returning to his own rooms the last night.

Leaning over, he pressed his lips to Masamune’s temple. “Masamune-sama, it’s already morning.”

Masamune opened his eye, sitting up. He rubbed at his face, blinking even as he turned around, yawning liberally into Kojuurou’s face as he tugged at his hair.

“It’s too damn early to be awake, _damnit_ ,” he grumbled, slumping back onto the futon before swearing loudly as the sun hit him in the eye. Smiling, Kojuurou raised a hand, covering his eye even as he leaned down, kissing him briefly on the lips.

”We are setting out today to meet the Kai troops and Sanada, my Lord.”

“That’s later in the day,” Masamune retorted, reaching up and tangling his fingers in Kojuurou’s sleeping yukata, tugging him down and kissing him properly, tongue darting into his mouth and licking against the roof. His hand buried itself in Kojuurou’s hair, tugging hard on the small strands at the base of his neck.

Kojuurou kissed back with as much energy, pressing his Lord onto the futon, legs spread around Masamune’s hips. His Lord only chuckled, wrapping his arms around Kojuurou’s neck, pulling him down and holding him still.

And Kojuurou let him, his own hands clenching around Masamune’s shoulders, holding him close and feeling his strongly-beating heart against his own.

It’s a perfect morning.

***

The more Hikaru remembers of the past, the more he wants to just close the distance and kiss Masamune. But he can only stay half an inch away, afraid to breach the distance. His Lord has always told him that he thinks too much.

“The food is burning,” Hikaru blurts out, taking a step back and turning back to the pan—or he would have, if Masamune hasn’t reached out, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back. He tries to protest, but he hears the stove being turned off even as Masamune drags him forward by his shirt collar.

“Are you running away, Kojuurou?” Masamune asks, a vicious grin on his face. It’s all teeth, lips pulled backwards, and Hikaru thinks that he looks like a predator just about to pounce. And he is the prey.

He takes a deep breath, wryly wondering when he has turned into such a coward. The Dragon’s Right Eye was said to be a dragon himself, as a fierce as the One-Eyed Dragon, more than capable of keeping up with him. If not, he wouldn’t have been able to guard him and fight by his side, for Masamune was not a man who would slow down for anyone. Kojuurou had been that man, and though Hikaru knows that he’s not the same person, he knows that he still has to keep up with the other man. He can’t fall behind.

Because Masamune has already waited for so long for him that he can’t force him to wait anymore.

“I won’t run away, Masamune-sama,” he whispers quietly, just loud enough for it to be heard by the two of them, and no one else.

“ _Good_ ,” Masamune smirks, and pulls Hikaru forward, hard, pressing his lips against him. Immediately, Hikaru’s own lips part, tongue darting out to meeting Masamune’s even as his arms wrap around the younger man’s body. The heat is familiar, and so is the shape and form—but most of all Hikaru recognises the way Masamune kisses, all intensity and roughness, teeth scraping over Hikaru’s lips, biting against his tongue, breathing in sharply and stealing the air straight from Kojuurou’s throat.

It’s making his head spin, and he holds on even tighter to Masamune, his own tongue licking over the other man’s teeth, darting inside his mouth to trace along the sides of his mouth, moving into every corner and causing the younger man to bite down on Hikaru’s own lip to stifle his sounds.

He has missed this. This connection, as they are sharing breaths, so close together that they might as well be one person rather than two. As if they are two halves of a whole, and they have finally found each other again. Hikaru feels that tugging ache inside him cease entirely, and he closes his eyes, burying his fingers into Masamune’s hair.

Slowly, they pull apart, still panting against each other. Masamune is leaning his forehead against Hikaru’s, and grinning at him, his fingers tugging at the ends of his hair. Then, slowly, Hikaru pulls away, bowing his head.

He sinks to one knee in front of Masamune, seeing but ignoring the wide-eyed look the younger man is giving him. Taking a long breath, he steadies his voice before he tilts his head up, meeting Masamune’s gaze steadily and putting his hand over his heart. He has no sword here, no knife, but he hopes that Masamune will understand him without them anyway.

(Four hundred years and they have found each other again.)

“I, Katakura Kojuurou, the Right Eye of the Dragon, pledge my life to serve you, Masamune-sama,” he breathes out, then continues, steel-voiced. “And I, as Suzuki Hikaru, vows to always stay by Matsuda Tohru’s side.

“For our entire lifetime, and the next one, and the next after, until our souls have ended.”

Masamune- no, _Tohru_ laughs, reaching down and grabbing Hikaru by his forearms, tugging him back onto his feet. Then he reaches down and picks up Hikaru’s glasses, sliding them back onto his face.

“ _It’s a deal_.”

***

The memories are like precious jewels. Hikaru holds them close to his heart, caresses them and treasures them. But they no longer matter.

Masamune is here now. _Tohru_ is here now.

And this time, he won’t fail him again.

He promised.

 _End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sun rises at 4.30am in Oushuu. Kojuurou wakes up then, and Masamune wakes up an hour later, when Kojuurou brings him breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> Masamune's lines and some of his thought processes belong wholly to sieglein@LJ, my RP partner. I'm just stealing them from her for a bit.


End file.
